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"Fitz!" says Keefe, delighted, as Fitz finally walks into the coffee shop. Sophie looks up and waves, pencil crooked in her mouth.
Fitz grins. "Hey, sorry, my Chem lab ran sorta late."
Keefe nods to a drink on the table. "We got you coffee, though it's probably cooled down."
"Thanks." Fitz brings the cup to his lips, finds it warm even if not piping hot, and perfectly milky. His heart twists. Keefe remembered just how he likes it. "What were you guys doing?"
"Just our Macro reading," says Sophie, rolling her eyes. "And then we got bored, so we started playing this dumb game—"
Keefe starts laughing. "Hey, wait—"
"What? It's really dumb."
"What game?" asks Fitz.
"It was your idea," Keefe tells Sophie. He turns to Fitz. "But yeah, it's pretty stupid."
"What is it?"
"It's that one trend," says Sophie, grinning. "You know, you take a sip when you see someone hot."
Fitz accidentally looks straight at Keefe, who's smiling uncertainly. Then he looks at Keefe's cup. It's significantly emptier than Sophie's.
"Oh," he says.
Keefe, too, looks at his cup. He blushes.
"Okay, come on," Sophie says. "Play with us. It's fun."
Keefe is quiet at Sophie's side. He's pretending to be focused on something else, but Fitz sees the lingering red on his face.
"Fine," says Fitz, adjusting his seat so he has a view of everyone walking in. Afternoon classes are just ending. Half the student body is slowly funneling into this coffee shop, phones tightly clutched, tote bags slung over shoulders.
"Oh, look at her," whispers Sophie after a few moments, taking a sip. A girl walks by, sporting platform boots and blue chunks in her locs. She's pretty, but Fitz doesn't particularly feel anything looking at her. He wonders if—
He hears a second sip, then. Fitz's heart sinks, just a little, but he doesn't look back at Keefe. It was just a game.
And so it goes. Sophie tells them a weird story about her Anthro class, how she might never go back to office hours again. Keefe talks about how everyone is going to fail in his short film workshop. Every time the bell at the door rings, the three of them simultaneously turn to judge whoever's walking in.
A girl in a bright pink sweater, her hair studded with barrettes. She smiles at them when she notices their stares. Sophie slowly takes a sip. Keefe does too. When the door rings behind her, Sophie grumbles something about how she should've gotten her number.
A guy with freckles, reddish hair that's constantly flopping in his eyes. He looks like a complete dork, though maybe it's endearing, because Keefe sips again.
A guy wearing a lacrosse jacket, tall, his legs thickly muscled. Keefe doesn't move. Then Sophie says, "Didn't you hook up with him last semester?" and Keefe elbows her into silence and Fitz feels like an absolute fool.
A curvy girl with a mass of brown curls, eyes lidded with deep purple. Keefe and Sophie both sip, continuing to glance unsubtly at her until she leaves the coffee shop.
A guy with messy bangs tipped with silver, inexplicably wearing a hoodie in this heat. Keefe drinks. Sophie and Fitz stare at him, unable to contain their disbelief.
"What?" says Keefe, slouching. He doesn't meet Fitz's eyes.
Fitz is becoming kind of sick of this game. His coffee is cold now. He's tired of Sophie's knowing gaze every time he doesn't sip. He's tired of constantly hearing Keefe's straw suck at a cup that has maybe two drops left in it.
He has seen no one he thinks is especially hot, with one obvious exception that he can't very well reveal. It's not fair. It's really, really not fair. In a fit of frustration, he decides to take a sip for the next person that comes through that door, no matter who it is.
The bell rings. A short girl in a rumpled orange dress, eyes big and blue, hair choppy and blonde. She cuts a glare at their table as she walks past. "What are you all staring at?"
Sophie grins as she goes and takes a sip. Keefe doesn't move. Fitz hesitates, then determinedly follows suit.
"Really?" says Sophie. She and Keefe are both looking at Fitz, but their expressions are very different. Sophie laughs. "I didn't know that was your type."
Blonde. Blue-eyed. Snarky.
Fitz shrugs. "It's not."
"Oh, sure." Sophie looks like she wants to say something else, but the bell chimes again and they all look.
This girl is ridiculously stunning even from a distance. Fitz's stomach flips with dread, but before anyone can reach for their cup, Keefe interrupts. "Guys, not gonna lie, I'm kinda done with this game."
"Fair," says Sophie, shrugging.
"I just have a ton of reading to do, you know?" His gaze darts to Fitz, then to his cup, then to his laptop. "Like, a lot."
Fitz's entire body untenses. "Yeah, same," he manages, but Sophie's already slipped on her headphones and tuned everything out.
Fitz wishes he could do the same, but he hadn't brought anything to mute the sound of Keefe's sudden onslaught of typing. He keeps finding himself distracted, staring at Keefe's hands as they move. They're long, an artist's fingers, stained with ink.
He occasionally feels Keefe staring back at him, but never succeeds in catching the act. The air is so tense that Fitz's neck begins to actually ache. He can't get anything done like this.
"I think I'm gonna go," he says. He checks the time at the corner of the screen. Only forty minutes have passed. "Sorry, I'll just study in the dorm probably."
Sophie nods vaguely. It's possible she hasn't even heard him. But Keefe looks up, forehead furrowed, and Fitz realizes he should've lied about where he's going. They're roommates. Keefe usually goes along with him.
"Okay," says Keefe. His gaze flicks back to his laptop.
Fitz leaves. He walks through the sweltering late afternoon. Sweat drips down his neck as he looks at every person walking by, analyzing, judging. Does he think they're hot? Any of them? Even a little bit?
No.
Would Keefe think they're hot? Probably. Most of them, yes.
Fitz can't study in the dorm either. He lounges on his bed, pictures dark lashes and full lips and curved hips. It's not doing anything. His thoughts turn to broad shoulders, stubbled jaws, but he remains nothing more than blankly appreciative.
It's only when he gives in, allowing Keefe's face to float into his mind, that his blood surges forward. Twisted mouth, stray freckles, salt and citrus. It makes him dizzy with want, desire unfamiliar in his veins.
Most of the time, he can hold it at bay. He's good at watching without staring. Smiling without hoping. But sometimes he can't help it. A painful, sticky heat builds in his gut, claws up his throat, and he needs a release. When the heat finally fades, he leans into his pillow, sweaty and tired. And all that lingers is guilt.
He's constantly playing a game of Imposter. When they walk to class together. When they pregame for parties. When they hug, even, the casual way Keefe throws his arm around Fitz's shoulders because he has no idea, none. Fitz has been maintaining this deception since they met, freshman year during Move-In Day.
"I'm sort of messy, but not like, dirty. I get hot really fast. I'm definitely not a light sleeper. Um, yeah, I think that's it. Anything I should know about you?"
"No," Fitz had said, fastidiously not looking at his new roommate's face or else he'd lose all focus, possibly forever. "Nothing."
Keefe comes back to their dorm a few hours later. Fitz's mouth is still sour with shame. He doesn't want it to leak into his words, so he says nothing, just nods a hello.
"I was just at the dining hall," says Keefe. He pauses. "Did you eat anything?"
Fitz shakes his head.
"I figured. You always get really into studying." Keefe pulls a couple Tupperwares out of his backpack. "Here, I smuggled this for you."
"Oh." Fitz's heart gives a hard pang. He climbs out his bed, joining Keefe on their floor and opening a container of pasta. "Thank you. Seriously."
Keefe rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, no problem dude."
They're quiet as Fitz eats. Keefe is on his phone, but he doesn't appear to be doing much more than blankly staring at it. The air's charged again, though not as uncomfortable as it'd been in the coffee shop. Fitz is able to breathe.
"Hey, um," says Keefe, suddenly. "I need to tell you something."
"Oh," says Fitz. His next inhale stabs his lungs. "What?"
"When we were playing that game, in the coffee shop. Uh. You know that one girl?"
Fitz blinks. "Who?"
"You know." Keefe's eyes dart everywhere but Fitz's face. "The—I guess the only one you thought was hot."
"Oh. Yeah. I remember." Blonde. Blue-eyed. Snarky.
"I, um. I know her." Keefe exhales. "Her name's Marella. She's in my Sociology class."
"What?"
"So. You know."
"I don't," says Fitz, completely befuddled.
"I can get you her number."
"Why?"
"I mean. You liked her, right?"
"I—" Fitz jerks backward, realization hitting. "Oh. I, um."
Keefe finally meets his gaze, but it's twitchy, flitting away and back. "You just usually... I don't know. You're not that interested in girls. But if you like her, then you know. Go for it. She'll definitely be interested."
"How do you know?"
"Because, you know, you're..." Keefe trails off.
Fitz realizes they're both embarrassed, cheeks flushed. He wants to know, desperately, how Keefe was planning to finish that sentence, but now it seems like neither of them knows what to say next.
He shrugs, if only to do something. "Okay."
"I just—I know she'll like you. Okay? So, do you... Do you want her number or something?"
Fitz picks at the carpet. It's ugly and scratchy and in desperate need of a vacuum, but he can't even remember the last time he did laundry. "No. I'm good."
"Okay."
And maybe Fitz is crazy, maybe he's progressed to full-on delusions, but there's a hint of relief in Keefe's voice. He suddenly looks up. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"What?"
"Like, when we were there with her? At the coffee shop?"
"Oh," says Keefe. His ears are a burning shade of red. "I don't know."
"Are you and her not friends, or...?"
"No, um, we're friends. We talk. I don't know why I didn't say anything." Keefe is fidgeting hard with his shirt, and he doesn't seem to realize. Fabric twists around his fingers, untwists. "I guess I just... I mean, I—"
"I didn't like her," Fitz interrupts. "Not like that."
"Then why'd you..." Keefe hesitates. "You know. Why'd you take a sip?"
Fitz bristles. "Maybe I just wanted coffee."
"Really?"
"Well, I mean, I don't have to like her to think she's hot, right? Were you interested in everyone you took a sip for?"
Keefe looks at him, stunned. "No, of course not—"
"I'm just saying," Fitz continues, unable to stop himself now, "Are you really one to talk?"
He slams his mouth shut a moment too late. The silence spreads between them like an ever-creeping oil spill, staining Fitz's lips and hands and heart.
"Huh," says Keefe. Then again, softer, "Huh."
Fitz crosses his arms, embarrassed. "What?"
"You sound jealous."
It's too quiet. A revealing kind of silence.
"I'm not."
Fitz automatically shakes his head, opens his mouth to laugh, but the movements feel hollow. He can't pretend his gaze is anything but what it is. The cloak of deception has fallen away too easily for what it had taken to keep it up, and now Fitz feels bare, skin burning with the intensity of being known.
Keefe's smile grows. It's softer than the caustic grin he usually adopts. "You know, I was hoping you'd say no to Marella's number."
It takes a second. Then suddenly, Fitz is also smiling. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He could feel what was about to happen, sense it building in the inches between them. It's still a wonderful surprise when Keefe tugs his shirt close and kisses him too gently to be true. Fitz's breath is shaky, his hands bracing on solid shoulders as he lets himself fall into the kiss, mind immediately blanking out.
When Keefe pulls away, his heart stutters with panic. But Keefe just studies him with serious eyes, says eventually, "I've been thinking of doing that for a while, you know. I was thinking of it the whole time, at the coffee shop."
Finally, finally, the heat blooming in Fitz's chest doesn't hurt.